Monkeyshines
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Sturmbannfuehrer Dieter Hellstrom survives the shootout in the tavern in Nadine, France.
1. Chapter 1- Visiting Nadine

**Chapter I- Visiting Nadine**

* * *

Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom was a good Party man. At 26, he already had advanced in the Gestapo, a secret police service that was one of many branches in the Schutzstaffel or SS, to a rank that the Heer would have called Major. Sturmbannführer itself translated to Assault Troop Leader- or something similar- in English, not that this was of much concern to Hellstrom. He was a Nazi Party loyalist through and through, ever since he'd joined the Hitler Youth back in the early 1930's. Unlike some children, Dieter Hellstrom had fought to join. He couldn't wait to get in.

He'd taken many beatings from his belligerent drunk of a father for joining. Those, after the extent of the damage had been extended to Dieter's beloved mother one night, had ended abruptly with the bark of a Luger pistol. The neighborhood Gestapo man had been in the area, and stopped a panicking HJ still in his uniform as he fled the house where both his parents lay dead. Now, a little over ten years later… here he was. One of the youngest Majors in any branch of the SS.

Hellstrom had been reading his copy of _Mein Kampf_, presented to him on the same day he gained his commission into the SS as an officer of the Gestapo, the Nazi Party's secret police. As able an officer as he was a fanatical Nazi, Dieter Hellstrom had come very far, very fast. So as any good Nazi would want to do, he read the Führer's _Mein Kampf_ any chance he got. Hellstrom was loathe to admit it, but many sections of the book were, while not bad, _boring_. Just like a textbook. Not something he would have expected from the man whose voice alone could stir passion in thousands. Other passages of the book, though, were fascinating, giving a hint of the powerful will and brilliant mind Adolf Hitler had been gifted with. Hellstrom was in the middle of a particularly interesting passage, one about making a message palatable to the masses, when there was a commotion out in the main room of the tavern.

Dieter Hellstrom had come to this cellar, this lousy French excuse for a bar, about two hours ago. He'd parked his black Mercedes with its right wheels up on the curb and directly in front of the place, daring anyone to do something about it. Perhaps someone would, if those miserable peasants in the Resistance were in town. But they weren't; Hellstrom had rightly expected they'd be putting the very best of their efforts into the Normandy area, where the Allied landings were going on, and Paris, the capital. Some stupid little village that looked stolen from four hundred years in the past- there had to be a million of them in France- that stood 20 kilometers out of Paris was not going to matter tonight. Not even to the Resistance.

So Hellstrom went down into the tavern as the sun was setting; he'd been wearing his black dress uniform for the occasion, just to see the little Frenchies shit themselves at the sight of the red-white-and-black swastika armband and the Totenkopf skull on his cap. It didn't disappoint, Hellstrom recalled with a wolfish smile. It did not disappoint.

And of course, just as Hellstrom had figured, his car stayed untouched by the side of the street. The black Benzes were even scarier to enemies of the Reich than the gray ones; gray meant camouflage, that you still felt a need to be modest and to hide yourself from enemies in the air. Black meant not only that you were important, a rising star- or a risen one- in the Reich, but that you both knew you had enemies and did not care. It was the ultimate statement of arrogance, parking a black Mercedes-Benz in front of a tavern in occupied Nadine, France, and it was the kind of thing Hellstrom lived for.

A shout of "Achtung!" from the main room of the tavern; boots scraping the stone floor as the group of German Army enlisted men jumped up. Somebody must have stood up too fast, because a dish shattered. Hellstrom paused, looking up from _Mein Kampf_. He frowned; what the hell was going on out there?

The back room Hellstrom sat in, occupying a nice four-man table all by himself, was at times reserved for overflow on busy nights, or for special guests. Hellstrom had invited himself to take the back room for a few hours of quiet reading, a meal and a beer or two, counting himself as a 'special guest' indeed. The barkeeper and the girl who assisted him had been all too happy to oblige. Hellstrom paid them in Francs whenever he bought something; those worthless French bills and coins practically made him a millionaire after Hellstrom converted even a hundred Reichsmarks. This was an exaggeration, but hardly far from the truth in Hellstrom's mind. He spoke enough French to get by, and no more. Dieter Hellstrom hated the French. It wasn't anything in particular; they just thought they were so superior… just like the Germans. _Except_, Hellstrom would have said to anyone that pointed that out, _the French aren't running France anymore. The Reich is_. To Hellstrom, that very much ended the issue of proving which people was superior. The strong proved themselves to be such by conquering and ruling over the weak; if Germany under the Reich had finally managed to subdue the French, then obviously the German people were stronger.

Hellstrom listened with a certain interest as the new arrivals to the tavern were greeted by the German film actress, Frau von Hammersmark. When told to shadow her at this tavern in Nadine, Hellstrom had decided to do the very thing no Allied spy would expect; he put on his most obvious SS uniform, the one that with its red armband screamed he was a Nazi to the world, and just marched into the tavern like he owned the place. When Hammersmark showed up an hour later, the barkeeper and his helper never mentioned the SS major in the back- and why would they? Hellstrom had a holstered Luger strapped to his waist, and any damned fool would know it was loaded. The barkeeper would let Hammersmark spend a whole evening here and never mention Hellstrom's presence… if he was smart.

From the way the conversation was going, three men had arrived; SS. They had to be. Why else would the Army soldiers have snapped to attention not just with respect, but with fear? The Army did not command such esteem. The SS did.

After a time, the men apparently took seats, and conversation resumed its usual level of semi-drunken babble as the soldiers returned to the name-guessing game they'd been playing with Hammersmark. Hellstrom shrugged, returning to taking sips from his beer and slowly turning through the pages of Mein Kampf. So some SS men had arrived; so what? They weren't Gestapo or Hellstrom would have known they were going to be joining him. Chance would likely have it that they were Waffen-SS, officers with a combat unit on its way to the front. Hellstrom made a mental note to perhaps greet the men later, once Hammersmark's supposed 'guests' had arrived. Perhaps these men were them; perhaps not. Hellstrom returned to his reading.

Perhaps ten minutes later the usual flow of conversation- and drunken laughter- ended again. The German Army sergeant, the one with the newly-born son, was questioning one of the new arrivals, apparently a captain of the SS, about his peculiar accent. Then another of the new voices, shouting with that arrogant authority Hellstrom knew quite well, was saying, "I'm making you and you responsible for him! I suggest you take hold of your friend-" there were scrapes of wood on stone as at least two of the soldiers stood up- "or he'll spend Max's first birthday in jail for public drunkenness!"

Hellstrom snapped his book shut, his mouth flattening into a line and his eyes narrowing in irritation.

_That does it._

Raising his voice no more than was needed, Hellstrom called, "Might _I_ inquire?"

Abruptly, all the yelling stopped. Taking advantage of the silence, Hellstrom took one more drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out on the glass ashtray. Taking hold of his glass of beer, Hellstrom stood up and slowly, almost lazily, made his way into the main room of the tavern. _Well, well, well_, he wanted to say with great sarcasm. _Three officers of the Waffen-SS have decided to foul up my evening_.

Hellstrom paused in the doorway, silently nodding when he saw all eyes were on him… and that everyone had shut up. All that shouting had been threatening to give him a headache.

Into the silence, Hellstrom said quietly but with a tone that radiated command, "Like our newly-christened father here, I, too, have an acute ear for accents."

Walking forward into the room, Hellstrom gave the barkeep, standing at one end of the soldiers' table, a little pat on the shoulder. Hellstrom had no idea who this was; he didn't know the 40-something year old, rapidly-balding man. But Hellstrom had been in a good mood this evening- so far. He'd been leaving Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm and his friends to their game because the sergeant was now a father, and seemed to be a good man, even when getting tipsy. Hellstrom hoped the fact that Wilhelm seemed inclined to be friendly rather than mean when drunk would be a characteristic that stayed with him; Hellstrom had seen firsthand how cruel a father could be if he got mean when drunk instead.

Now standing in front of the table where von Hammersmark and the three SS men were sitting, Hellstrom said, "And I, too, find yours odd." Hellstrom eyed the SS captain as he said this; naturally he would pay attention only to the one with the highest rank… and the oddest accent. Hellstrom asked in that same calm and conversational- yet vaguely threatening- tone the very question he had on his mind. Looking still at the Hauptsturmführer, Hellstrom asked, "Where are you from?"

One of the two SS lieutenants, this one a man with dark hair seated off to Hellstrom's left, tried to interrupt. "Herr Sturmbannführer, this is highly-"

Hellstrom cut him off with a sharp glance. "I wasn't talking to you, Obersturmführer München." To make sure the third gray-uniformed officer stayed quiet, Hellstrom looked to his right and added, "Or you either, Obersturmführer Frankfurt." Now Hellstrom looked back at the SS captain, seated- as any man in charge should be- at the head of the table. "I was speaking to Hauptsturmführer I-Don't-Know-What."

Dead silence. You could have heard a cricket chirp, except they were too afraid to do so without the Gestapo major's permission.

After a moment's pause, the SS captain, he with the finely-combed hair and the oily voice, answered. "I was born in a village that rests in the shadow of the Pitz Palü."

Hellstrom nodded. "The mountain?"

"Yes." The captain said. "In that village, we all speak like this. Have you seen the Riefenstahl film?"

Hellstrom gave a curt nod. "Yes."

The captain gave a knowing smile. "Then you would have seen me. You remember the skiing torch scene?"

"Yes," Hellstrom answered again. He was starting to get tired of not being absolutely, positively in control of the conversation. _This captain had better stop wasting my time_.

The captain went on, "In that scene was myself, my father, my sister and my two brothers. My brother is so handsome, the director- Pabst- gave him a closeup."

With a smile, Bridget von Hammersmark said, "Herr Major, if my word means anything, I can vouch for everything the young captain has just said."

Hellstrom didn't so much as blink, his stony expression remaining set, but inside he felt distinctly annoyed all of a sudden. _Major_? Couldn't this fool of a woman read badges of rank? Dieter Hellstrom was not some sap in the Army! But she was a civilian, and a greatly esteemed film celebrity. Hellstrom let it pass.

Oblivious to her error, regardless, von Hammersmark continued, "He does hail from the bottom of the Pitz Palü. He was in the film and his brother is far more handsome than he." Suddenly, if only to break the awkwardness of the quiet, Hammersmark started laughing. Despite giving a mock look of dismay at Hammersmark praising his brother's looks before his own, the SS captain joined in, and the not-quite-sober Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm stared at them a little before starting to giggle himself.

Inside, Hellstrom shrugged. Maybe this captain really was just from a remote area of Germany, one with an equally unique dialect. It happened all the time, especially in the Waffen-SS; Hellstrom had read somewhere, in some report, that the Waffen-SS recruited legions from outside of Germany nearly as often as within. The Waffen-SS of 1944 was more like the French Foreign Legion than an elite force of all-German knights.

Finally, Hellstrom decided to crack a smile, taking a drink of his beer and laughing a little himself. Not because he was amused, but because he wanted everybody to calm the hell down. Sometimes having everyone in the room freeze and stare at you got boring. Gesturing to the sergeant with his glass, Hellstrom remarked, "You should rejoin your friends."

Abruptly, two of the enlisted men from the next table grabbed Wilhelm and got him out of the picture; they knew the SS major had not said that purely for Wilhelm's benefit. It had been just as much a warning to Wilhelm's friends: get this man out of the conversation or I will do it myself.

Now every inch the SS gentleman, Hellstrom inclined his head and bowed slightly to von Hammersmark. "May I join you?" he said most courteously.

Equally polite, Hammersmark waved a hand invitingly. "By all means."

Hellstrom swept off his black officer's cap, tossing it down on the table. He smiled roguishly. "Wonderful!" he said, as if he couldn't have come out from the room in the back for any other reason.


	2. Chapter 2- A Game in the Tavern

**Chapter II- A Game in the Tavern**

* * *

Hellstrom strode up towards the head of the table, clapping the senior SS lieutenant- the one who spoke like he was from Frankfurt- on the shoulder. Taking the hint, the man got up and moved to the chair to his left. Hellstrom set his glass on the heavy wood table and sat down, grinning at the captain. This was proving to be a most interesting evening, indeed.

"So that's the source of your unusual accent, then?" Hellstrom said, truly intrigued. "That's extraordinary." _That, and the fact that your accent- just by chance- also sounds vaguely English_, Hellstrom didn't add.

"What are you doing here?" Hellstrom asked the captain.

Speaking with a casual manner, a kind of oily assurance that Hellstrom couldn't help but admire, the captain shrugged as if the matter was obvious. "Aside from having a drink with the lovely fräulein?" Hammersmark smiled at the compliment.

Hellstrom nodded, smiling a little. "Well, that pleasure certainly requires no explanation." Turning businesslike again, he said, "I mean in country."

The captain didn't reply immediately; he seemed a bit unsure of what Hellstrom meant. Hellstrom added, "Obviously you're not stationed in France, or I'd know who you are."

Looking politely incredulous- and perhaps genuinely incredulous, too- the captain said, "You know _every German_ in France?" The idea seemed incredible, even for a man who- by his manner alone- was likely with the Gestapo.

Hellstrom just smirked. "Worth knowing."

Both men abruptly burst into laughter, and the tension at the table eased just a little more. With one hand, Hellstrom casually reached into his right pocket, taking out some more Franc notes to pay the bartender… and also flicked the safety catch off his Walther.

When the laughter had subsided, the captain said simply, "Well, there lies the problem. We never claimed to be worth knowing."

Hellstrom decided to cut through the bullshit a little; his suspicion that these three SS men were von Hammersmark's Allied 'friends' was growing. The source of the intelligence had been none other than Prinz-Albrecht Strasse; the message had been that three spies would be meeting up with von Hammersmark in this tavern on this night. Hammersmark hadn't been the source of much interest by the Gestapo in France before- it was only vaguely suspected that she was passing information to the Allies. But passing information was one thing, and a film star could only know so much. Meeting with spies, possibly airborne-dropped soldiers, was something else entirely.

And when the order to watch von Hammersmark- and act if necessary- came from Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, Hellstrom needed no greater incentive than that. If Heinrich Himmler thought Bridget von Hammersmark was an Allied spy, she was. Proving these men were, too, would be necessary before Hellstrom did anything. The actress was nothing to him; he'd killed his share of pretty women before. But Hellstrom didn't want to accidentally kill three officers of the Waffen-SS just because he had a hunch and one had a funny accent.

"All levity aside, what are you doing in France?" Hellstrom's question was calm and his tone non-threatening… but it could turn that way any time Hellstrom wanted, and everybody knew it. He loved being in the Gestapo.

"Attending Minister Göbbels' film premiere as the fräulein's escort."

"Ah," Hellstrom said with a small smile, his gentlemanly manner returning as he glanced at von Hammersmark, who smiled modestly in return. "You are Fräulein Hammersmark's escort."

The captain sighed wistfully as von Hammersmark raised a cigarette to her lips. Taking out a lighter with an ease of movement that said he'd done this many times before, the captain flicked it open and held the flame to von Hammersmark's cigarette. "Someone has to carry her lighter," he said with exaggerated weariness.

Deciding to elaborate, von Hammersmark said, "The captain is my date, but all three are my guests. We are old friends, who go back a long time."

Hellstrom nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes scanning the three men at the table. Is that so?

"Actually," von Hammersmark added with a laugh, "longer than an actress would care to admit."

Hellstrom grinned, as if congratulating the three SS men on their good fortune. "Well, in that case, let me raise my glass to the three luckiest men in the room."

Hammersmark raised her glass also. "I'll drink to that!" she said, and so each of them did.

"Queen Christina!" one of the soldiers at the other table exclaimed, having guessed the name on the card taped to his forehead. The others all laughed, in a way that said they were definitely not quite sober anymore.

Deciding to remark on it, Hellstrom threw a glance back at the other table. "I must say," he said to the SS captain, "That game they're playing looks like a good bit of fun." Hellstrom shook his head disdainfully; "I didn't join them because you're quit right, Hauptsturmführer. An officer should never fraternize with enlisted men."

Hellstrom smiled, though, glancing around the table. "But… seeing as we are all officers…"

He nodded to von Hammersmark, "And sophisticated lady _friends_ of officers… what say we play the game?"

The captain started to raise a hand, as if he wanted to object, and Hellstrom's eyes narrowed just a tiny bit; suddenly Hellstrom was a thousand times more alert, on the lookout for insubordination now as well as a spy in the Reich's uniform. But Hammersmark patted the captain's arm, quieting whatever objection he might have made. "Yes, great!" she nodded with enthusiasm. "One game!"

Hellstrom nodded, smiling. "Wonderful."

He got up, turning to the soldiers at their table. "Soldiers," he said with a politeness he didn't need to use, "some cards." A handful of blank cards were promptly handed to the SS major, and he smiled graciously. "Excellent."

Sitting back down at the officers' table, Hellstrom said, "The object of the game is to write the name of a famous person on your card. Real, fictitious- doesn't matter. For example, you could write 'Confucius' or 'Doctor Fu Manchu'. Calling over to the bartender- he happened to remember the man's name- Hellstrom said, "Eric! More pens."

Turning back to the group as he distributed cards to each of them, Hellstrom said with a smile, "And they must be famous; not Aunt Frida."

The others smiled appreciatively. Hellstrom went on, "When you finish writing, place the card face down on the table, then move it to the person on your right. The person on your left, of course, moves his card to you. You pick the card up without looking at it, lick it-" Hellstrom did this now to demonstrate- "and place it on your forehead."

The bartender arrived with a handful of fountain pens; Hellstrom nodded thanks and glanced at the SS lieutenant off to his left. The man seemed in a right foul mood about something, and had Hellstrom known who this man really was he wouldn't have wondered. Even so, he did… why would a lieutenant in the 12th SS Panzer Division be so far from the front now, with his boys dying in Normandy? Why would any officer of the SS, for that matter, even look in the direction of an SS major with such an ugly expression? Hellstrom just thumped the man in the chest, grinning in good cheer and urging him to write. Maybe if Hellstrom acted friendly enough instead of mean enough, this idiot would try to start a fight. He looked easy to provoke, and Dieter Hellstrom loved shooting up a bar once in a while. Why not? He never had to pay for it, and smashing up stuff the French owned was never a bad thing.

The group all followed his instructions, and soon Hellstrom grinned when he read the names the others had put on the cards. What could be more fun than a few beers, a game, and possibly shooting some spies? Not many things, Dieter Hellstrom noted. Not many at all.

"I'll start," Hellstrom said, "to give you an idea of how this goes."

Hellstrom paused, thinking for a moment. "Am I German?"

"No," came back the answer.

"Am I American?" Hellstrom asked. Again, the others shook their heads.

"Wait," Lieutenant München said, "He goes to-"

"Well, obviously he wasn't born in America," von Hammersmark said.

Smiling at the slight giveaway of information, Hellstrom nodded. "So I _visited_ America, yes?"

"Yes," von Hammersmark said.

"Was this visit fortuitous?"

"Not for you," Lieutenant München said, and Hellstrom had to laugh. He was having a good time.

"My native land, is it what one would call exotic?" Hellstrom asked.

"Yes," the others chorused.

This was helpful information, but at the same time far from enough. Hellstrom frowned in frustration. "Hmm… that could be a reference to either the jungle or the Orient."

Finally, after a few moments, Hellstrom plunged ahead. "I'm going to let my first instinct take over and ask." That, as it happened, was what Dieter Hellstrom did all the time. It was how he believed everyone should be, always. Follow your instincts; animals survive on that alone for a reason. "Am I from the jungle?" Hellstrom asked.

"Yes," came the answers.

Hellstrom nodded. "Now, gentlemen, around this time you could ask if you are real or fictitious. I, however, think that's too easy, so I won't ask yet. So! My native land is the jungle, I visited America, but the visit was not fortuitous to _me_… but the implication is that it _was_ to somebody else."

Hellstrom leaned back in his chair, enjoying the course of the game. Maybe he'd just shoot them all afterwards and blame the Resistance. Nobody left alive in the bar would dare question the report Hellstrom would give the town constable.

"Now, when I came from the jungle to America… did I go by boat?" Hellstrom asked. Again, the answer was yes.

"Did I go against my will?"

"Yes."

"On this boat ride," Hellstrom asked, "was I in chains?"

The answer was yes yet again, and Hellstrom grinned. He was getting warmer with each guess.

"When I arrived in America, was I _displayed_ in chains?" Hellstrom questioned the group. Yes again.

Now it was time to go in for the kill. "Am I the story of the Negro in America?" Hellstrom asked, and when the answer was no, Hellstrom shrugged theatrically. "Well, then- I must be King Kong."

Hellstrom plucked the card off his head, flipped it around, grinned and slapped it down to the table, face-up. It read: KING KONG.

"Bravo!" von Hammersmark said. "Impressive!"

"Now," Hellstrom said, "Since I finished correctly, all of you need to finish your drinks."

Each of the others at the table did so, and Hellstrom threw a glance to Lieutenant Frankfurt, who was still sitting off to his left looking as grumpy as ever. Hellstrom thumped him on the chest with his arm again. "Well, then!" he said, looking around. "Who's next?"

But the captain took off the card on his head, sighing wearily. "Well, Herr Sturmbannführer… I don't meant to be rude…"

_I highly doubt that_, Hellstrom wanted to say, but kept silent for now. This fellow would probably dig his own grave soon enough.

"But the four of us are very good friends, who have not seen each other in quite a while. So, Herr Sturmbannführer, I'm afraid you are intruding."

Dieter Hellstrom stayed right where he was, his left arm resting on the back of the chair and his right sitting on the holster of his Walter- which was conveniently out of sight. He steeled himself against drawing his weapon and shooting them all right then and there. It almost physically pained him not to do so; Hellstrom had such fun watching a bit of somebody else's blood flow now and then, he himself had wondered more than once if he wasn't a little insane. But what was that in the grand scheme of things? A little mental instability was hardly a bad thing.

Anger flared in Hellstrom, but he kept his voice even- though that took effort. "I beg to differ, Hauptsturmführer. It's only if the _fräulein_ considers my presence an intrusion, that I become an intruder."

All humour gone from his voice, Hellstrom snapped the question out. "How about it, Fräulein von Hammersmark? _Am_ I intruding?"

She shook her head. "No."

"I didn't think so," Hellstrom said, staring coldly at the SS captain with more slick words than good sense. "It's simply that the Haupsturmführer is immune to my charms."

Dead silence at the table again. Suddenly Hellstrom could hear one of his schoolteachers from not so long ago: 'Mother's day at the orphanage', he would say, to break up an awkward silence. Suddenly, Hellstrom could no longer stay angry; the thought was just too funny. He laughed, playfully slapping a hand at the SS captain's face.

"I was just joking!" Hellstrom said, laughing still at all the solemn faces before him. These people were a tough crowd. "Of course I'm intruding!" he said, as if that couldn't have been more obvious. "Now, even a Sturmbannführer can tell when he's worn out his welcome, and I will take a shot in the dark and say I've just got there. So be it! Allow me to refill your glasses, gentlemen, and I shall bid you and the fräulein adieu."

Now, Hellstrom thought. Now it's time to call in the Stukas. Hit the target dead-on and don't mess around about it.

Leaning in close as if to share a secret, Hellstrom said, "Eric has a bottle of thirty-three year old whiskey; from the Scottish Highlands. What say you to it, gentlemen?"

The SS captain said quietly, "You're most gracious, Herr Sturmbanführer."

"Eric!" Hellstrom called, looking over to the bar. "The thirty-three. And three glasses!" Hellstrom neglected to mention that agents of the Paris Gestapo had made a little trip into town a few weeks ago, making sure the Scottish bottle found its way into the hands of the town's best barkeeper. If there was an Englishman in the bar tonight, Hellstrom knew the man would not be able to resist. _A German_, Hellstrom thought with a smirk, _would be more subtle_.

Looking back to the group, Hellstrom said, "You don't want to contaminate the thirty-three with the swill you were drinking."

"How many glasses?" Eric called again.

"Five," Lieutenant München answered, but Hellstrom said to the bartender, "Not for me."

Explaining this to the others, Hellstrom said, "I like scotch, scotch doesn't like me." The others laughed appreciatively.

"Nor me," von Hammersmark said. "I'll stay with bubbly."

"Three glasses," the SS captain said, and Dieter Hellstrom stared. The 'captain' was holding up his last three fingers, curling the index finger under his thumb. Acting instinctively, he hadn't remembered there was a German at the table.

Hellstrom wanted to jump up and scream for joy- he'd done it! He'd figured it out!

The son of a bitch was English.


	3. Chapter 3- Shooting in the Basement

**Chapter III- Shooting in the Basement**

* * *

Dieter Hellstrom let the table fall silent as the barkeep came over and the whiskey was poured; he was steeling himself for the fight he know knew what coming. _What fun_, Dieter thought with relish. _It's been too long since I shot somebody_.

Once everyone's glasses were full again- von Hammersmark had received more of her champagne- Hellstrom raised his glass of German beer. "To a thousand-year German Reich!" he said, and he meant every word.

The others echoed him, even that Englander son of a bitch sitting just a foot or two away.

Already the thoughts were racing in Dieter Hellstrom's mind. If the captain was English, he couldn't be in the SS. The others with him were either Englishmen with much more convincing German… or traitors. And that left Bridget von Hammersmark…

Hellstrom took a big gulp of his beer, thanking God there was at least one good drink to be had this far from sacred Germany.

Then, abruptly, Dieter Hellstrom thumped his glass to the table; his right hand flew to his holster. "I must say," Dieter Hellstrom said with a look that held neither good cheer nor humour, "I grow weary of these monkeyshines."

Clack!

Now the pistol was out of its holster, aimed right at the English bastard's grapes.

"Did you hear that?" Hellstrom asked, as if talking to a child. "That was the sound of my Walther. Pointed right at your testicles."

Laughing a little, the 'captain' asked, "And why do you have your Walther pointed at my testicles?"

Hellstrom's face was almost a grimace, now- he was losing patience here. In fact, it was long gone. "Because you've just given yourself away, 'Hauptsturmführer'. You're no more German than that scotch."

Over at the bar, Eric set a hand under the counter. It rested on a double-barrel shotgun.

"Herr Major-" von Hammersmark began as the 'captain' tried to say something, but Hellstrom cut her off. He'd had enough of this traitorous bitch. He snapped, "Shut up, slut," and turned back to the Englishman.

"You were saying?"

The man leaned forward, matching Hellstrom's glare. "I was saying that makes two of us. I've had a gun pointed at your balls ever since you sat down."

A hand clamped roughly on his shoulder, and a pistol was forced down at Hellstrom's crotch. "And that makes three of us," fake-Lieutenant Frankfurt said. "And at this range, I'm a real Friedrich Zoller."

In spite of having two guns aimed at his crotch, Dieter Hellstrom chuckled. "Looks like we have a sticky situation here."

Now the Englishman talked like he was the one in charge. "What's going to happen, Sturmbannführer, is you're going to stand up and walk out that door with us-"

But Hellstrom cut him off. "No, no, no, no, no. I don't think so." Choosing his words carefully, Hellstrom said, "We both know, 'Hauptsturmführer, no matter what happens to anybody else in this room, the two of us aren't going anywhere."

A pause; the Englishman was clearly thinking about it, and Hellstrom was pleased to see that. This was going to be fun, however it happened, but contrary to what his devil-may-care manner might have suggested, Dieter Hellstrom planned on living. He just wasn't afraid of dying.

Hellstrom smirked. "Too bad about Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm and his famous friends. If any of you expect to live, you'll have to shoot them too." With mock sadness, Hellstrom said, "Looks like little Max will grow up an orphan. How _sad_."

Finally, the Englishman in an SS captain's uniform nodded, as much to himself as to Hellstrom. He leaned back in his chair, taking out a cigarette and flicking open his lighter. "Well, if this is it, old boy," he said in English, "I hope you don't mind if I go out speaking King's."

"By all means, Captain," Hellstrom said, also in perfect English. Unlike the incompetent idiots that were clearly running Allied special forces language schools these days, the SS trained with the very best. Some of their men had even gone to Oxford before the war.

Picking up his glass and glancing at what remained, the Englishman said reflectively, "There's a special rung in hell for those who waste good scotch. And seeing as I may be rapping at the door momentarily…" he lifted the glass, finishing the drink in one gulp. "I must say," he said, "_damn_ good stuff, sir."

Hellstrom's heart was racing now; he could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. It was better than anything else a man could get a rush from. Nothing was so exhilarating as knowing you might not be alive much longer.

"Now," the Englishman with the oily voice was saying, "about this pickle… we find ourselves in. It would appear there's only one thing left for you to do."

Inside, Hellstrom nodded. Just one second more…

"And what would that be?"

"Stiglitz," the Englishman said, and Hellstrom suddenly felt a violent surge of hate. _Stiglitz_!

"Say 'auf wiedersehen' to your Nazi balls," the traitor said, but Dieter Hellstrom was already moving. Hugo Stiglitz threw his life away the instant he wasted time talking. Men like Dieter Hellstrom knew such moments called only for action.

In one movement so fast most would have had to look twice to even notice it, Hellstrom shot his left arm under Stiglitz's gun arm, snapping it up at the instant he fired. The bullet instead went into the English bastard's shoulder, and as he wildly attempted to reorient his aim against Hellstrom's interference, Stiglitz managed to put his second bullet into Bridget von Hammersmark's leg. Hellstrom's Walther exploded as his right arm, still steady, put a shot into the English bastard's stomach.

The third spy in SS uniform was still able to move and act without Hellstrom's interference, though. So as the SS major swept his chair out from under himself and vaulted backwards towards the German soldiers' table, the third spy shot Hellstrom in the shoulder. The man couldn't tell if the shot was to the chest or to the shoulder, though; for all he could see it could have been a killing shot. Most willing to enhance this impression, Dieter Hellstrom used the white-hot pain that lanced through him to his advantage. Hellstrom cried out as he fell, going down as if killed. Hugo Stiglitz, blind with fury, turned to shoot Hellstrom again anyway- but 'Lieutenant' München's moment of hesitation gave the Gestapo officer all he needed. He rolled out of the way, behind the German soldiers' table. An instant later the entire room exploded.

It seemed in one seconds' time, every single person in the room was on their feet, firing for all they were worth. It was like dueling at ten paces with a pair of MG-42 machine guns. Rolling behind a toppled soldier for cover, Hellstrom raised his pistol and snapped off two shots, killing the stupidest traitor in Germany just as Eric the bartender gave Stiglitz both barrels. What was left of him crashed to the floor as, in a blinding flurry of gunfire, every one of the soldiers in the bar got a few shots off, and nearly all were killed. They reacted with incredible speed for men- and a few women- who moments ago had been calmly drinking, and Hellstrom couldn't help but admire that. Eric went down as he tried to reload his shotgun, killed by a shot to the head. Hellstrom, still lying on the floor, gave him a thoroughly heartless grin of apology. He'd finally remembered why he'd known the bartender's name. The man had been a Gestapo informant since 1940, but after a time even the best Frenchie informer outlived his usefulness.

The roar of gunfire went on for no more than ten seconds, but it killed nearly everyone in the room. Dust and the smoke of spent gunpowder filled the room as silence claimed it again.

Suddenly, as the clatter of footsteps could be heard on the stairs, the one soldier still on his feet, Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm, jerked up his MP-40 submachine gun and emptied the rest of the magazine at the stairs. Instinctively running behind the bar for cover, he yanked out the empty stick magazine and slapped a new one in place, jerking back the charging handle. He fired a few more rounds for effect, and called in English, "You! You up there! What are you- British, American? _What_?"

Before whoever was on the stairs could answer, Dieter Hellstrom rolled to his feet, firing his Walther at the stairs to forestall any response. "Shut up, Sergeant!" he screamed, then turned his attention to the intruder at the stairs as Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm Kessler stared at him like he was a ghost returned to life.

Snatching up a Stiehlhandgrenate from the pack of one of the dead soldiers, Hellstrom rapped it on the table next to him. "Whoever you are, I've got a grenade in my hands! Get the hell out of here, you French bastards! You can clean this shit up when I've left!"

No response. Hellstrom then repeated himself in French, announcing that in ten seconds he would indeed be throwing the grenade anyway. He grinned; if those were in fact Allied agents come to rescue their dead friends, they probably wouldn't know enough French to understand anyway.

In any case, Hellstrom lied- he threw the grenade before even counting to five. It was a difficult throw, potentially disastrous if you did it wrong. But Dieter Hellstrom had done plenty of shot-put competing in his time with the Hitler Youth; he threw the 'potato masher' just the right way for it to bounce off the stone wall and go shooting up the stairs.

KA-BAM!

Stone, dust, and mortar flew everywhere as the grenade exploded. The wrought-iron railing on the spiral staircase was absolutely destroyed, as were the wooden steps. But while stone was gouged from the walls, they themselves held. Hellstrom smiled a little, even as his ears rang from the explosion. At least these French had managed to get one thing right. It would have been inconvenient if the grenade had collapsed the main way out.

Now Hellstrom was up, his gun aimed at the sergeant, who somewhat understandably looked scared out of his wits. Actually, worse than that. Wilhelm was absolutely terrified, and his fear only worsened when he saw the SS major not only alive but aiming a Walther pistol at him.

"Come on, Sergeant!" Hellstrom said, grinning crazily. "You're going up those stairs!"

"What?!" Wilhelm said, as much out of fear as from impaired hearing.

Hellstrom motioned with his pistol. "Let's go. My Mercedes is outside and I need a driver to get me out of here. I don't feel like getting shot anymore." That part Hellstrom meant, and said without any humour. He'd enjoyed this, but it was time to go. Even if those had been nosy French on the stairs, these Allied morons probably did have friends in town. The village of Nadine was so absolutely meaningless the hamlet didn't even have an Army or SS barracks, and the Frenchman running the constable's would be no help at all at this hour. He'd probably cut his phone line when the two Germans showed up just so they couldn't call for help.

Finally, the sergeant sighed, looking so frightened he wanted to cry. But he advanced on the stairs, his MP-40 raised. Reaching the base of them and looking up, Wilhelm was seized with a grim resolve. If anybody was up there, they'd better be prepared; he was not about to let his son grow up without a father.


	4. Chapter 4- Combat & Survival

**Chapter IV- Combat & Survival**

* * *

Wilhelm sprang up the shattered stairs, boots pounding on the churned-up stone. In moments, he reached the tavern's entrance and vaulted through the door- what door?- throwing himself flat on the cobblestone sidewalk outside. Rapidly scanning the street to his left and right, Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm determined he was safe… for the moment. He sighed a little in relief. At least there wasn't a squad of British paratroops outside. That would have just meant going from bad to worse.

Even so, Wilhelm wondered about his choice of thoughts as the Gestapo major sprang out the door, sweeping the street with his pistol. He must have determined they were safe, too, because he turned his attention to his car; Hellstrom swore violently when he saw the tavern's front door, blown off its hinges, had actually been thrown the handful of feet between the entrance to the tavern and the Mercedes.

"Shit," Hellstrom spat, as much from the pain in his shoulder as from the fact that the Benz now had some rather unpleasant dents… plus both passenger windows shattered. Very nice, Hellstrom noted. God help whoever ends up having to pay for this.

"Herr Sturmbannführer, please," the sergeant was begging, "Just let me go. I-I didn't do any of this! All of the shooting, the killing- it's not my fault!"

"Shut up." Hellstrom said, his voice cold and flat. "Get your ass in that car." Taking the silver keys from his pocket, Hellstrom threw them to the Army sergeant. The young noncom's face lost what colour it had left; even the idea of so much as touching one of those sleek black cars frightened him. He'd heard more than enough about the men who drove them, the men in the dark coats. Wilhelm was already so scared he could barely think- now he was being ordered to drive this Gestapo man… where? To Wilhelm's own execution, simply for knowing too much?

But the SS officer was there over him now, grabbing Wilhelm and grimacing in furious pain as he hauled the sergeant to his feet. Wilhelm bent down and scrambled to pick up the keys. Left with no other choice, he hurried to unlock the car and throw the heavy wood door clear of the dented black sedan. Then he sprinted around to the passenger side- Wilhelm could have sworn he felt a thousand eyes upon him besides the SS major's, not one of them friendly- and threw open the driver's door. Dieter Hellstrom got in beside him just as he started the engine.

When Wilhelm started to ask what he was supposed to do, or where to go, Hellstrom grabbed the MP-40 Wilhelm had left on the seat and aimed it at the sergeant's temple. "Move, you idiot! If those morons had friends, they'll be here any second; we've got to go get our own! Get this fucking car moving now!"

Wilhelm uttered a terrified squeak when he tromped the gas pedal and forgot to put the car in gear; a growling Hellstrom poked the MP-40 at his temple. Then Wilhelm got the Benz into first gear, and this time when its powerful engine roared in response to the gas pedal being flattened to the floor of the car, it took off down the road, soon vanishing into the night.

For a few minutes, they just drove; the Gestapo officer was clutching his shoulder now, cursing and almost forgetting to aim his pistol at the Army sergeant. The adrenaline now having faded, his shoulder hurt like hell and was bleeding more than Hellstrom cared for. There wasn't a hospital he trusted anywhere between here and Paris.

"Where are you garrisoned, Sergeant?" The question wasn't said in a way that left much time for an answer.

"Paris," Wilhelm almost sobbed. When the hell was this going to end? What had he _done_? "I'm stationed in Paris! My unit, we were being transferred up to fight at the Normandy front! We were going to head north in just a few days, and today I got the news my son was born!"

Then the gun was at his temple again. As they passed a clearing, some empty farmer's field, Hellstrom said, "Stop the car, Sergeant. _Now_."

The Mercedes swung off the road so fast it smashed through the wooden fence. The heavy steel fenders and chrome bumper took the blow, however, so the blackout-covered headlights remained intact. Wilhelm was thankful for that; he didn't want to imagine what would happen if he furthered the damage to the Gestapo officer's car. It might well mean a fate worse than what could be in store for him already.

The moment the sergeant had the car stopped, now resting in a French farmer's cow pasture, Hellstrom told him to turn off the engine, and get out of the car. _Oh, God_, Wilhelm thought, feeling so overcome with despair he started to weep. _This is it_.

"Get your hands over your head," the young Gestapo officer said, his voice flat and commanding. Wilhelm did as he was told, and was marched a few feet into the field away from the sleek black car. "Knees- get down on your knees." Hellstrom said, and Wilhelm did that too. He waited for the end, determined to face it as bravely as he could manage.

The major's voice; cold, unamused. "Sergeant, you'd better stop crying or I really am going to kill you."

Wilhelm stopped.

"Do you love your son?"

Surprised, Wilhelm started to turn around; he stopped abruptly when the Walther pistol was jammed into the back of his head. "Look forward!"

The question, again: "Do you love your son?"

"H-he was born today! I was already going to fight at the front, and now this-"

"I won't ask again, Sergeant."

Wilhelm Kessler nodded; for some reason he felt a little calmer. Maybe the Gestapo officer really _did_ want to know… though it would probably make no difference in the end. He answered with one word: "Yes."

"Are you normally friendly when you drink, Sergeant?"

"Y-yes," Wilhelm said haltingly. He still had no idea where this was going. "It gets me thrown out or beat up in some places, because I keep trying to be nice to everybody. Not everybody's nice when they drink."

The Gestapo officer then said very quietly, no menace at all in his voice, "Yes. I know."

Then something happened that Wilhelm Kessler wasn't expecting. Dieter Hellstrom told him to stand up, turn around. Once he did so, Wilhelm grew very still again when he saw the Walther was still aimed at him. The SS major's eyes held a strange look, though; was he debating what he was ultimately going to do?

As a matter of fact, Hellstrom was. He was going back and forth in his head- shoot the man for having seen too much, or let him go. Why, though? Well, if nothing else the sergeant had _seen_ plenty but _knew_ nothing. He had no idea why the shootout had occurred, none at all. The Gestapo would hardly blame Hellstrom if he shot the young sergeant, but would they much care if Hellstrom let him go? The man knew no critical information, no state secrets, and his quick actions had quite possibly saved Dieter Hellstrom's life in the tavern. He had assisted the dispatch of no less than three Allied spies, and while Hellstrom had no idea if Bridget von Hammersmark was still alive or not, the Gestapo would soon be told she was an Allied spy herself. Wilhelm Kessler had made all that possible, in his own way.

And there was something else. An odd feeling was occurring to Dieter Hellstrom, something he could not place.

This man didn't seem like the type… to do what Dieter's father had. Even when drinking, he just got friendly, and sensible men never drank to excess at home regardless. "Would you ever strike your wife?" the SS officer asked, his voice giving nothing away.

The Army sergeant shook his head, still wondering what the hell was happening. But at least his chances looked a tiny bit better… just a tiny bit. "Never," he said. "I'm a soldier, but I could never hit Ilse, and I know I couldn't do it to Max, either. I hate fighting; I just do it because the Allies bomb Frankfurt. They're bombing all of Germany, all day and night." The sergeant's voice took on some force, giving a hint of the courage that had led him to earn his Iron Cross, 1st Class on the Eastern Front last year. "How could I not fight against men who want to kill my family?"

The major considered this; finally he looked at the sergeant, tilting his head a little. "Those men inside the tavern- they were with the French Resistance. Some of their better operatives. You know that?"

Wilhelm stared at Hellstrom in the dark; obviously not.

Hellstrom suddenly cracked a smile, one totally without his trademark sadism or menace.

"I think we need to get you another Iron Cross, Sergeant," Hellstrom said. "For special services to the Reich."

But the Army sergeant's distressed face said he didn't like the idea at all. "Please," he said, "no. No medals. I'm already going to have to explain what happened to my friends-"

"We'll take care of that," Hellstrom said, without any shortage of confidence.

"Please," Wilhelm said again. "I just want to forget about this. My unit is going to the front tomorrow, and I want to get home and see my son."

A pause. Finally, standing there with his Walther aimed at the young sergeant in the dark, Dieter Hellstrom transfixed him with a stare, one that very much made the two men resemble a snake and a bird. "If you have lied to me, Sergeant, I have every legal right to shoot you now." Hellstrom considered. "If you have told me the _truth_, I have every legal right to shoot you now." The Sturmbannführer paused again. "We both know my Walther is loaded. I could shoot you in this field and no one would ever know. This is true, yes?"

Wilhelm shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the summer night's air. "Yes," he said, feeling his knees go watery. Was this ever going to end?

Then the SS major flipped his Walther around, flicking the safety on again and returning it to the leather holster at his waist. "I'm not going to." He walked back to the car, motioning to Wilhelm and wincing as the pain once again returned to his arm. He'd somehow managed to ignore it for the past minute or two.

When Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm Kessler just stood there on the grass, staring back at the black Mercedes he'd put through the fence, the SS major grinned again, his almost unnatural good cheer returning again. It seemed to come and go whenever the young officer wanted it to.

"Come along, now, Sergeant," he said, waving with his right arm- not his left- at the car. "We have another fifteen kilometers back to Paris. The Army needs a good sergeant, and the Gestapo will need my report."

Finally Wilhelm decided he was serious; he slowly walked back to the black car, its chrome grille shining in the moonlight. It was a beautiful car, yet the men who so often drove them were the scariest, meanest bastards in Germany. As Wilhelm got back in and started the engine, backing the Mercedes onto the road and setting off at as fast a pace as he dared, Wilhelm wondered what the hell he'd manage to do right. He was being allowed to live after seeing a whole bar full of people shot all to hell. He was driving the car of a man who, by simple virtue of who he worked for, could kill with impunity. The major said little for the rest of the drive; in fact, other than giving some basic directions for turns, he said nothing at all. With the adrenaline having quite fully worn off now, the wound in his shoulder was plenty sufficient to occupy his attention.

Finally, though, when they neared Paris' outskirts, the Sturmbannführer motioned for Wilhelm to stop. Wilhelm knew this area of the city's outer regions; he could likely walk back to his barracks from here. Hellstrom got out and walked around to the driver's side; he held open the door, smiling politely as he held out a hand in invitation. Wilhelm sighed wearily, reached for his MP-40 and stood up, out of the car.

By the time he turned around, the black-uniformed SS major was already sitting down; with a clunk he swung the Benz's heavy door shut, looking up at the Army sergeant. "I think the French Resistance decided to hit that bar tonight, Sergeant. I think you acted very bravely during the raid, and the compliments of the Geheimestaatspolizei should be passed on to your commander." The Sturmbannführer paused. "Don't you think so?"

Wilhelm Kessler nodded. "Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer," he said. He was willing to agree with damn near anything the SS officer said, as long as it meant getting back to his barracks alive. _What irony it would be_, Wilhelm thought, _if this Gestapo man lets me go and I got killed in_ _Normandy three days from now. What irony, indeed_.

But maybe that wouldn't happen. Hopefully, it wouldn't. In final dismissal, Dieter Hellstrom- who had never told Wilhelm his name- pressed a 100-Reichsmark note into his Wilhelm's hand and said, "Give my regards to Max, Sergeant." Then the Mercedes was moving away, accelerating down the road and off towards a hospital German doctors currently oversaw. The sleek black car's taillights winked red as it swung around a corner, and then it was gone.

Wilhelm Kessler stood alone on the dirt road, just at the outmost regions of the city of Paris. He didn't know what time it was, and he didn't care.

_What the hell did I do right today, to be spared by a nut from the Gestapo_? Wilhelm wondered. _Why did he ask me those questions_?

Then, after just a moment of thinking about it, Wilhelm Kessler decided he didn't want to know. There were some things it wasn't best to ask too much about, and being let go by the Gestapo was one of them. Muttering a silent prayer of thanks that he'd run into the one Gestapo officer who wasn't all bad, Wilhelm started his walk back to the barracks. His men would need him for the big push into Normandy, and little Max would need his father to stay focused, to be smart and come home from the war alive. Wilhelm sighed, hefting the MP-40 in his arms. It was hard to believe the move north would start tomorrow. _The war waits for no man_, Wilhelm thought as he walked through the night. _And neither does the Fatherland. Or Max_.

That last thought brought a smile to Wilhelm Kessler's face, and suddenly he realised he really didn't care _why_ that Gestapo major had done what he did. Wilhelm knew he was lucky to be alive. He'd been given a second chance, and to Wilhelm it could only be one thing. It had to be the work of God, silently directing him to survive the war and make it home to his son. He'd been given a great opportunity; Wilhelm swore he wouldn't waste it.


End file.
